


have you got colour in your cheeks

by notadoombot (CaptainClintSpiderBalder)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, eternal pining, it's all about the repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-28 20:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20070433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainClintSpiderBalder/pseuds/notadoombot
Summary: Dante had gotten a lot of things wrong, but one thing he had managed to recall from their drunken encounter: Hell is fucking cold. That’s where Crowley had gotten the idea for general air conditioning in offices, after all.





	have you got colour in your cheeks

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of ideas seemed to come together to derail my attempt at fluff, including (but not limited to): not that veiled Divine Comedy references, corporate culture, loose demonology and general repression.

Dante had gotten a lot of things wrong, but one thing he had managed to recall from their drunken encounter: Hell is fucking cold. That’s where Crowley had gotten the idea for general air conditioning in offices, after all.

For the past few months, communication with Home Office had been— Well, strained, to say the least. So he really wasn’t expecting Timothy Dalton’s expression to darken in his —rather expensive, might he add— television screen. “Crrrrowley,” he had said, slow and guttural. And look, _The living daylights_ is not even one of his favourites, but he’d still rather keep it separate from work.

“Haagenti,” Crowley made an attempt for light and breezy. “It’s been… Well. Midas, wasn’t it?”  
“Not a social call, Crowley.”  
“Right, of course, of course.”

And voilà, three copies of his bicentennial performance review had appeared on his desk: ready to sign and deliver in person to Basement 9.

“What I don’t get,” he tells Aziraphale when he comes back, while the angel’s still looking for something in one of his drawers. “Is how on… How on _Earth_ is still Disobedience marked so low, it’s one of the”, and the mere thought of the wording makes him groan. He finally spits it out: “_core values_. Rebellion is our whole thing.”

Crowley’s still shivering from head to toe. Don’t get him wrong, it beats getting showered with rocks. Been there, done that: he’d rather get his paycheck in the traitors’ den. He also likes having feeling in his extremities. While he has them, at least.

“Huh,” Aziraphale has not turned to look at him yet. It took him about two minutes after Crowley’s arrival to dive head first into what appears to be the deepest drawer in all human and angelkind. “Well, it might have to do— Ah, there it is” and a smile spreads in the small portion Crowley can discern of his face, lights up the whole room. “Sorry, dear”, when he turns around the ugliest, thickest and somehow blandest sweater known to existence is in his hands. “I was just saying, it might have to do with the whole disobeying your employer thing.”

Crowley rubs his arms up and down, vigorously and with little result.

“Still. I think I might take it up with HR, that was a big bonus.”  
“Sure.”

Then he stares at Crowley, who, in turn, stares right back.

He’s holding the sweater out to him.

“Absolutely not.”  
“It’s cozy.”  
“It’s three hundred years old.”

Aziraphale doesn’t back out, looking strangely smug and tight-lipped. He can almost hear the response, even though he won’t speak. _Why don’t you miracle something up then_, he seems to be saying, as if there was something that could alleviate demonic hypothermia. And they’ve been through this before. Not this _this_ specifically, but if there ever was a being who just couldn’t let things go: that was Aziraphale. He’s the main reason Crowley even tried eel sushi, and definitely the _only_ reason he’d been to Waitress. Twice.

“Ugh,” he hides an eye-roll behind the dark-tinted glasses. “You know, tequila’s not a bad option either.” Aziraphale presses the damn sweater against his chest, and Crowley sighs. “Fine. Ugh.” He flexes his fingers before grabbing the stupid thing. “I’m not going out in this.”

Aziraphale pushes his own glasses against the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t know, you might find it to your taste, the nineties are coming back. Or so they say.”

Crowley hisses at him. This seems to draw a dry laugh out of Aziraphale, who goes back to his hellishly uncomfortable couch and abandoned book.

He takes a deep breath before putting it on. The sweater is two sizes too big and yet somehow short on his belly, but the thing that stands out is how the fabric itches the moment it comes in contact with his skin. “Is this—” he starts to say, and Aziraphale lifts his gaze up from the book.

“Is something wrong?”

_Is there ever_, he wants to say. He shakes his head, already feeling that familiar wave of warmth and nausea. “Something’s always wrong with me, otherwise I’d be out of a job.” He sits down next to him and props his boots on the small coffee table, he tugs at the too-long sleeves and burrows his nose in them. The fabric smells spicy and warm and righteous. “Do you wear this a lot?” he asks, and hopes his skin isn’t coming back redder when he reclines on the couch.

Humming distractedly, Aziraphale nods, he doesn’t turn to look at him.

Of course.

Crowley takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, his cutting cheekbones. The skin there is still ice cold, but the prickling sensation from the sweater spreads through him like sunburn. It’s not unlike those few instances his fingers have brushed against Aziraphale’s, not unlike the way his hand has absentmindedly found Crowley’s knee sometimes, like he doesn’t notice how it wanders. He feels himself sliding too close for comfort, almost leaning his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, who says “just let me know if it gets too— “ His voice doesn’t crack, exactly, only drifts off. He wonders if he’s remembering it too.

(_If it hurts, then why—_ they’ve always been drunk for that. See, that’s not a conversation to have sober. Not six thousand years ago, not now, not ever, probably. “It’s not like it’s consecrated ground, angel,” and he grabs Aziraphale’s hand, lifts it up between them. “See?” He’s making a point, it’s not like it means anything. The skin under his fingers feels feverish.

“_Crowley_.”  
“Anyway, I think we need more alcohol.”

_If it hurts, then why—_  
_Do you know?_ He says one time. _Do you know how sometimes someone hurts you. But— That’s still better, right. Because at least it means they remember you exist._)

“Sure, yeah,” he tells Aziraphale, and tries for a quick, burning nap.


End file.
